Dislocation
by afullmargin
Summary: Michael has to get out of a tight spot... time for Getaway Plan H... which nobody likes.


**Rating**: Teen

**Notes**: Written for comment_fic.

**Prompt**: any spy fandom, author's choice, Dislocating your own shoulder or wrist was part of Getaway Plan H. No one liked Getaway Plan H.

**Disclaimer**: This is a work of fictional parody in no way intended to infringe upon the rights of any individual or corporate entity. Any and all characters or celebrity personae belong to their rightful owners. Absolutely no money has or will be gained from this work. Please do not publicly link, repost or redistribute without letting me know first.

**Written**: 4/2013

* * *

Most criminals are predictable, when taking a captive they like to rely on a pair of handcuffs or zip ties to keep you tied down – over the years the use of rope has lost popularity as most people can't tie it off well enough to actually make it worth the effort. Unfortunately the ex-operative turned mercenary knows all too well how to fashion a quick and merciless system of ties and knots that even Michael Westen can't seem to slip.

"You all right, Mikey?" Sam groans, squinting at him in the dark storage container they're locked in.

Straining to reach until his skin burns and muscles ache, Michael lets out a frustrated grunt. "Peachy. Tell me again how iharmless/i this guy is."

"Hey, I didn't know all right? He seemed like a decent guy."

"For a gun runner." Michael spits back, marking Getaway Plan G off his mental checklist.

Sam sighs; "Hey, you trust Fiona's psychopaths all the time."

"Her psychopaths try to shoot at us or blow us up – they don't take hostages."

"Oh, come on. You've been in worse situations."

The sticky-hot July morning was quickly rolling toward afternoon and sweat stung his ropeburned arms and wrists as Michael reassessed the situation. "We've got maybe two hours before we're done preheating and this oven kicks over to broil, Sam. Any suggestions not involving an excuse would be really great right now."

"You could always… I mean, I know it's not exactly the best option but maybe Plan H from Venezuela?"

"You're kidding me." Dislocating your own joints was part of Getaway Plan H. Nobody liked Getaway Plan H because unless you were a gymnast it involved a great deal of pain.

"I'd do it, brother but the last time I tried that trick I ended up in the ER with a busted wrist after passing out when my thumb separated."

Michael frowns, considering the relatively short list of options. "You're buying me dinner tonight… all week."

"You got it."

He waits another long moment, giving another experimental tug at the tight ropes – there's no way he'll be able to slip them without the contortionist act and even then it's a fifty-fifty at best. Closing his eyes, he focuses all his energy into pushing against the rope, rolling his shoulder forward until he can feel the painful tug of ligaments stretching to their limit. "Two weeks," he growls through clenched teeth.

"Anything, man. Come on… you can do it."

Of course he can. He just doesn't like it. With a stomach turning, meaty pop the joint gives and Michael doesn't realize until he's already on the floor that he's managed to tip over the chair he's tied to. "Fuck!"

"You did it, you're halfway there." Sam attempts to be supportive as he catches the movement of Michael fighting once more against the bindings.

It takes longer than he would have liked, each shift of his body somehow drawing out a hot stab of pain in his shoulder, but he manages to roll onto his back and fight his good arm out of the tight rope – and then slowly manage out of the rest before the significantly easier task of untying Sam. "Help me put it back in."

"What? You're kidding, right? Can't you just Houdini it back in, little bit of slam it against the wall?"

Michael offers him a flat glare and shakes his head. "Just hold my arm straight out."

"If you're sure…"

"Do it, Sam."

Sam doesn't hesitate, gingerly grabbing Mike's wrist and holding it out straight with knuckles pressed to his sweaty shirt. "Alright. One… two…"

Before he could hit three, a much louder crunch-pop sounded as Michael pushed back to twist it back into place with a pained cry stifled into a growl. "Let's move."

"Just a second…" Sam gags, swallowing an acidic lump in his throat; "I think I'm gonna be sick."


End file.
